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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675225">Threads</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nic_writes/pseuds/nic_writes'>nic_writes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arla is alive and lesbian, Fuck Canon, Galidraan fix-it, Gen, M/M, arla fett - Freeform, but im not NOT saying arla is better than jango, fight me karen traviss, little brother Jango Fett, now im not saying arla is better than jango, slow-burn, tags will be added as we continue, this is an arla fett stan fic and i refuse to be shamed, very slow burn, we said fuck canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:22:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,526</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675225</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nic_writes/pseuds/nic_writes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees it a split-second before it happens. Myles tucking into a dive, flames from his gauntlet melting a ring of charred snow around Jango. And the jetti behind him. Long black hair in his face, launching himself into an inhumanly high leap. And his green blade, arcing down to connect right between Myles' plates and belt. Would bisect him almost laughably neatly in half. </p><p>But just as Myles seems to realize the danger, tries to twist away from the blade (it's not going to work, Jango knows it's not going to work, not even Myles is that good), a concussive thump. Jango is pushed back a few steps, falls onto one knee. Myles is knocked straight out of the sky, lands with a grunt in the snow. But the jetti gets the worst of it; he's thrown back a solid 20 feet and hits a durasteel crate hard. </p><p>Jango whirls around. There's a jetti standing there. A padawan. Fiery red hair and a bloody nose. He's got a blue jetti'kad clenched in one fist but the blade's pointed downwards, melting a hole through the snowpack. And the other hand stretched out in front of him, palm open. His blue eyes rimmed in white.</p><p>AKA an Arla Fett was adopted by Jaster au where everything is fixed and Palps gets fried.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arla Fett &amp; Jango Fett, Arla Fett &amp; Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>621</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As a universe unfolds, every event, no matter how unconnected, may one day seem to form a net, strings upon strings dragging unwitting protagonists to their fates. A delicate and intricate work of art, like the neural connections in the human brain. But if one or two strings snap, the universe may unfold into an entirely different future.<br/>
<br/>
In another universe, decades and decades of hatred, years and years of war end in betrayal. Sister gone, father shot, and soon his people slaughtered. Jango Fett lives on, survives them all. And then, you know how the story goes: an insane Jedi on one of the moons of Bodgen, Kaminoans with their long necks and cloning genius, Tyranus. An army of men with metal chips in their brains. And a dusty arena full of blaster bolts and fallen bodies. Fett’s jetpack sparking, broken but he doesn’t know it yet. He shot the reek right through the eye but it ensured his death; he cannot escape. Purple blade burning through cloth and skin. A little boy watching, scared, he would be twisted bitter in the years to come.<br/>
<br/>
But in this universe, one difference changes the turn of fate. Arla Fett isn’t left on Concord Dawn, stolen by armored Kyr’stad and molded into an assassin, broken. Jaster saves her too, drags the two crying children through the burning fields. Two Mandalorians hold their bleeding, dying father on Korda Six; two swear vengeance on Kyr’stad and on that traitor Montross. The haat mando’ade, Arla Fett their mand’alor, launch a bitter attack, bring violence down upon those aruetii mando’ade. Kyr’stad is almost defeated, dregs of what it once was, licking its wounds and plotting vengeance. And so the fate of Mandalore is pushed back by nearly two years. Two years as Kyr’stad lays its trap on a snowy planet. It seems that Arla’s vengeance has simply postponed the haran be haat’ade. But in those two years, the galaxy carries on as normal, Mandalore only a tiny piece in its cogs. Which is how it came to be that on 42 BBY, Galidraan, an older, more scarred Jango Fett comes face to face with Padawan Learner Obi-Wan Kenobi.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Come chat with me on Tumblr @a-dumb-writing-gay!!</p><p>Kyr'stad - Death Watch<br/>haat mando'ade - True Mandalorians<br/>mand'alor - leader<br/>aruetii mando'ade - traitorous Mandalorians (aruetii -&gt; foreigner/traitor, mando'ade -&gt; Mandalorians (children of Mandalore))<br/>haran be haat'ade - destruction of the True Mandalorians (haran -&gt; destruction, be -&gt; of, haat'ade -&gt; shorthand of haat mando'ade)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1: Arla</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dooku stop being a dick challenge. Arla is stressed and trying her best.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After i finished writing this chapter i looked over the wookipedia article on galidraan and realized all of the inconsistencies with canon. </p><p>Welp. It is what it is</p><p>All Mando'a definitions at the bottom</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Glass shatters, blaster bolts pinging off her armor as Arla Fett breaks through the window. There are shouts as <i>Kyr’stad</i> moves to follow her, dodging the backwash of her jetpack, but she turns midair, in a practiced motion and fires off a few shots. She notes with satisfaction that one of them, who had been lunging to grab her foot, gets hit right between the plates and collapses with a grunt. But there are five more standing, including that <i>demagolka</i> Tor and the <i>shabla</i> governor.<br/>
<br/>
She fires off a few more shots that bounce off of the chest plates and <i>buy’ce</i> of the rapidly approaching Mandalorians then turns and jets away. <i>Kyr’stad</i> is undoubtedly good with jet packs, but Arla’s better, faster and she has a head start. The buildings quickly fall away.<br/>
<br/>
Arla flicks the comms on. “Jango. Jango?<i> Jango.</i> Jango, <i>ibic jaon’yc.</i>” Nothing. She tries again, this time to Myles’ comm. “Myles… <i>Myles. Tion gar susulu ni?</i>” The comms crackle but there’s nothing but silence on the other end. Where the fuck are they? She flicks back to Jango’s, then in desperation opens the comms to all the haat’ade. “<i>Buruk. Haat’ade, buruk. Jettise olaro projor’sha car’ana.</i>” Silence. She repeats louder this time, “<i>Buruk. Buruk. Gar o’r gaanayl. Ke'viini!</i>”<br/>
<br/>
Static. She realizes that she’s breathing too hard, gasping and sounding a fair amount hysterical. Desperately, she flicks the comms on and off a few times to nothing. Shit. Her helmet comms must have been damaged. She viciously clamps down on the part of her that begs to spiral and scream; she didn’t get to be <i>mand’alor</i> by losing her head every time something fucked up. Although this is a pretty big fuck-up.<br/>
<br/>
“Ke’haalu, verd’ika,” <i>her buir said. She’d been fifteen and her best friend had just died, been shot through the head, she’d led them into a Kyr’stad ambush, and now she was collapsed over the body, sobbing. </i>“Udessi. Udessi, Arl’ika.” <i>He’d knelt by her for an hour; Myles had taken one look at the situation and led Jango, who was eleven and still an</i> adiik, <i>away by the wrist. </i>“Ke’haalu,” <i>Jas’buir told her. </i>“Ke’haalu, Arl’ika. Gar nu vaabi naas par kaysh al haalur.” <i>To anybody but another</i> mando’ad <i>it might have sounded cold, but Arla understood; the only thing she could do was keep on breathing, keep on living. Not fuck up again.</i><br/>
<br/>
Arla takes a deep breath. She has to breathe, she has to keep on going. If she can’t raise them over comms, she has to get there in person. She can’t be too late, she won’t be too late. Arla tucks her arms tighter into her body, streamlines her legs and dives closer to the ground. Faster, faster, faster, fasterfasterfaster. The wind whistles over her <i>buy’ce.</i><br/>
<br/>
She’d kept on breathing for Jaster and for all the others that she’d lost. She has to keep the <i>haat’ade</i> breathing for Jaster too.<br/>
<br/>
Even as the encampment grows visible, ever-larger, Arla hears the tell-tale rumble of ships breaching atmo. <i>Jettise.</i> Kriff. They’re landing on the ridge, just near the tents. Too close to the <i>haat’ade </i>ships. She doesn’t like this. But the ground is rapidly approaching and she can see Mandalorians turning their visors up at her, Jango’s red and blue armor and Myles’ yellow pauldrons. With a grunt, she cuts her jetpack only a few feet from the snow and rolls into a messy landing. Her shoulder blades make hard contact with a rock and protest loudly.<br/>
<br/>
She pushes herself to her feet - no time to lie there in the snow - and turns to find Jango right behind her.<br/>
<br/>
“Arla,” he yelps. “<i>Ori’vod-</i>” Behind him, there’s a line of Mandalorians and Myles’ visor is fixed at a point behind her.<br/>
<br/>
She whirls around, drawing her Westars, and her stomach drops. She’s too late. The <i>jettise</i> are making their way through the trees, stopping just at the edge of the forest. No <i>jetti’kad’e</i> out yet, but she can see hands resting almost casually on their grips. At their head is a tall man with those flowy brown robes they all seem to wear. Behind her, someone mutters, “<i>Osik.</i>”<br/>
<br/>
She casts her eyes over the <i>jettise</i> now fanning out, does a quick headcount. <i>Shab,</i> there have to be at least twenty. She notices a few younger ones, perhaps Padawans, one with fiery red hair and another with a white-blond ponytail and a scowl. But too many of them look experienced. There are nearly five times as many <i>haat’ade </i>here, but she isn’t confident that they can win. In fact, she’s not confident at all.<br/>
<br/>
So she puts one hand up, signals at the assembled <i>haat’ade.</i> Back up. She can faintly hear Myles talking, figures he’s realized that her comms are damaged and is giving orders. Slowly, they inch backwards. There are durasteel crates near the edge of the encampment, unloaded and empty. Some of the <i>haat’ade</i> take shelter behind them. Arla, Myles and Jango stand in the middle, under no cover.<br/>
<br/>
The <i>jettise</i> haven’t moved at all, just stare at them. Arla’s skin prickles and beside her, she can hear Jango growling softly. He’s angry. Good, when he’s angry he hits harder, but she’s not sure they can punch their way out of this one. “<i>Udessi, vod’ika.</i>” Jango quiets, but she can tell he’s still furious, a cornered animal begging to lash out. But Arla isn’t <i>mand’alor</i> just because she’s four years older. She’d always been more shrewd, kept an eye on the bigger picture whereas Jango hunted with single-minded determination. And this time, she’s quite sure that swinging fists won’t solve the problem.<br/>
<br/>
There’s a crunch of snow; the lead <i>jetti</i> has taken a few steps forward. Blaster safeties click off; in the edge of her vision, Jango tenses. <i>Ke’pare</i>, she wills him silently, sliding one finger over her own safety and pushing it to kill. But she doesn’t fire, takes a step forward but no more. No point in making herself a bigger target than she already is. Not that <i>jettise</i> make a habit of using projectiles when they can toss someone around with their minds.<br/>
<br/>
The man lifts his chin. Arla’s feed zooms on on his face: long nose, neatly trimmed brown hair and an almost imperceptible curl of his lip. She doesn’t make a habit of trusting anybody but other <i>haat’ade</i> (she’d trusted Montross, the bastard) but something about him strikes her as particularly off. She classes him at around the same level as the Hutts.<br/>
<br/>
“Mandalore Mereel, I presume?” She dislikes his voice instantly. He can’t get the Mandalorian accent right and something about the measured cadence speaks disgust quite fluently and clearly even across the clearing.<br/>
<br/>
“Fett, actually. And you are?”<br/>
<br/>
He tilts his head. “Jedi Master Yan Dooku.”<br/>
<br/>
“Well <i>jetti</i>, I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you but I don’t know why you’re here.”<br/>
<br/>
“To business then,” he responds, a smirk in his words. <i>Ori’buyce, kih’kovid.</i> All helmet, no head. Arla had never really understood that saying but she could see it now, the way the man drew out his sentences as though they should be hanging on each and every word.<br/>
<br/>
“I’m afraid to tell you the Mandalorian Supercommandos have been accused of -'' he pauses almost theatrically.<br/>
<br/>
A pregnant silence. Kriff this <i>di’kut</i> acting like a holodrama.<br/>
<br/>
“Yes?” Arla growls, feeling her chest tighten.<br/>
<br/>
“Murder, I'm afraid. Mass murder, bordering on genocide, and an unsubstantiated attack against the Galactic Republic by committing this heinous crime on a planet with strong ties to the Republic."<br/>
<br/>
A beat of shocked silence and then she can hear muttering behind her, but Myles snaps, “<i>K’uur,</i>” and they fall silent. Arla can hear the blood pounding in her ears.<br/>
<br/>
Jango snarls and Arla grits her teeth but she forces her voice steady. “You must be mistaken, <i>jetti.</i> We’re here on a bounty.”<br/>
<br/>
Dooku smiles, a quick flash of teeth but Arla would be <i>utreekov’la</i> to mistake it for kindness. “Ah, but I’m afraid we have it on very good faith that you have landed on Galidraan uninvited -“ the fucking governor, Arla realizes “- and in fact, we have a body count to match.”<br/>
<br/>
“We are here on a bounty,” she repeats. Panic is rising inside of her again; she can see the trap that she’s stumbled in but has no idea how to cut herself and the <i>haat’ade</i> loose. Jaster would know what to do. But she isn’t Jaster.<br/>
<br/>
“Well unfortunately, the evidence doesn’t look that way, does it?”<br/>
<br/>
Arla turns her head just a touch to one side then the other. The crates the <i>mando’ade</i> have taken shelter behind bristle with rifle barrels. Myles is still talking softly, two fingers now pressed to his temple (she wishes she could hear the comms but she trusts him) and from the shuffling behind her, she assumes that squadrons must be moving into position, others clearing the way for their take-offs. Across the clearing, the <i>jettise</i> are tense. Some of them have already unclipped their <i>jetti’kad’e</i> and are holding them in ready positions, unlit as of yet. Dooku meets her eye and the corner of his mouth lifts wryly. She readies her Westars.<br/>
<br/>
Then a voice, loud and arrogant. “If you don’t come with us now, we’ll kill you all.” The blonde Padawan she’d clocked earlier has stepped out of line and is staring Arla in the eyes (or in the visor, she presumes). Her <i>jetti’kad</i> already out, head tilted. <i>Chakaar.</i><br/>
<br/>
Arla yells, “<i>Tra’cyar mar!</i>” and squeezes off a barrage of shots at the girl.<br/>
<br/>
With a snap-hiss, lightsabers activate and the <i>jetti</i> charge. A roar in her ears as Myles and the <i>sentra’tsad</i> take off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Soooooo here it is!! I hope u guys liked it. Beta'd by the incredible iron_hoshi, their Jangobi fic is amazing check it out!</p><p>Come chat with me on tumblr @a-dumb-writing-gay</p><p>Kyr'stad - Death Watch<br/>demagolka - monster<br/>shabla - fucking<br/>buy'ce - helmets<br/>ibic jaon'yc - this is serious<br/>Tion gar susulu ni - do you read me (can you hear me)<br/>Buruk - danger<br/>Haad'ade - True Mandalorians (abbreviated haat mando'ade, plural)<br/>Jettise olaro projor'sha car'ana - Jedi are coming (Jedi come soon)<br/>Gar o'r gaanayl - you're in a trap<br/>Ke'viini - run<br/>mand'alor - leader<br/>Ke'haalu - breathe (imperative, haalur -&gt; to breathe, ke -&gt; imperative, makes it an order)<br/>verd'ika - little warrior (affectionate term)<br/>Udessi - calm down<br/>Arl'ika - little Arla (affectionate term)<br/>Gar nu vaabi naas par kaysh al haalur - you can't do anything for them but breathe (literally you can't do nothing because mando'a uses double-negatives for emphasis)<br/>mando'ad - Mandalorian (literally child of Mandalore)<br/>Jettise - Jedi (plural, jetti -&gt; singular Jedi)<br/>Ori'vod - older sibling (in this case sister, but Mando'a is gender neutral)<br/>Jetti'kad'e - lightsabers (kad'e -&gt; swords (plural, kad -&gt; singular sword), jetti -&gt; Jedi, literally Jedi's sword)<br/>Osik - shit<br/>Shab - fuck<br/>vod'ika - little sibling (in this case brother, again vod is gender neutral)<br/>Ke'pare - wait (imperative, parer -&gt; wait, ke -&gt; imperative, makes it an order)<br/>Ori’buyce, kih’kovid - all helmet no head (used to express derision at someone's overblown sense of self-importance)<br/>di'kut - idiot<br/>K'uur - silence (imperative)<br/>utreekov'la - foolish, idiotic (utreekov -&gt; idiot, 'la makes it an adjective)<br/>chakaar - grave robber, insult<br/>Tra'cyar mar - fire at will<br/>sentra'tsad - jetpack squadron (literally jetpack group)</p><p>Some translations might not be accurate, plz lmk about any typos or other issues. Mando vocab from mandoa.org, Mando grammar from https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UCaWkZQDw0HVUujqsCvmgW_Nw5gBOAWPFMtRC4Q6yBY/edit</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2: Arla</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Blease Arla be nice to yourself.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sooooo this one was a journey. I kno I promised a Jango chapter but I was dissatisfied with the way I ended the last one so it's Arla again. It was kind of hard writing because I don't really understand how battles work (thankfully).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arla registers the hum just before the <i>jetti’kad</i> hits and whirls around, barely dodging the blue plasma blade. She can feel the heat against her chestplate. The <i>jetti</i> is holding one arm to their chest and it seems to throw them off balance; Arla ducks under a far too wide swing, grabs their wrist, and elbows them in the face, leaving a blackish bruise on their green cheek. With a grunt, they stumble backwards. She follows up with a leg kick that hooks their feet out from under them and then shoots them in the face.<br/>
<br/>
<i>The first time Arla killed someone, she was twelve. Jango was squirming out from under the</i> Kyr’stad <i>tank when she heard a jetpack cut behind her and whirled around to take an armored fist to the face. Her father had taught her how to fight, but she’d only squabbled with other kids who threw sloppy, wide blows. Not like this one, who was fast and precise. The attacker sliced her arm twice before they landed a hard hit against her guard and knocked her onto the ground. With a snarl, Jango launched himself at the Mando who punched him across the face. He landed with a yelp. Desperately, Arla scrabbled across the ground, looking for something to throw at the Mando, even a rock. Instead, the hilt of a pistol bruised her fingers. She rolled onto her back and lifted the blaster - right hand squeezing the grip, left supporting her wrist - and squeezed off a shot that shattered their visor.</i><br/>
<br/>
Five sentients converge on her, blasters firing. They have the neat blue uniforms of Republic Judicial Forces, who’d arrived in mass just after the first shots were fired. She catches few bolts on her vambraces but most of them go wide; they’re inexperienced and look young for <i>aruettise</i>. She quickly deposes them with a few shots and a few fists. The Judicial Forces are sloppy, the slapdash rebels even more so. But the <i>jetti </i>are the backbone of the attack and the problem too.<br/>
<br/>
There’s a yell that even she can hear (her comms are still down and it’s a fucking pain in the ass and even more than that, could get them all killed, she curses herself for getting hit across the <i>buy’ce</i>) and she whirls around just in time to see a blue blade pierce Ferro’s chestplate. They collapse. The <i>jetti</i> tilts their head at the body at their boots. It’s the blonde Padawan, the same one who’d threatened her <i>aliit</i> and there are armored bodies strewn out behind her, deep slashes burnt into their beskar. Cort, Fenri, Davin, Racine. And Ferro. All dead now, killed by that girl.<br/>
<br/>
<i>Shabla jetti.</i> Come in and fuck up peoples’ lives and then just walk away. Arla’s gonna tear her in half.<br/>
<br/>
With a yell, Arla charges her.<br/>
<br/>
The <i>jetti</i> steps forward around to meet her, slashing the <i>jetti’kad </i>across her body. Arla dodges the blow but the Padawan quickly brings her blade back up before Arla can land a hit on her side. She's smart then. Arla backs up a few steps and pulls out her <i>beskad.</i> Well forged <i>beskar</i> can take a few glancing blows from a <i>jetti’kad</i> but it can’t hold up long in a duel, would burn in half with the first blade lock. And her <i>beskad</i> is shorter too, only two feet, less reach than most lightsabers. But Mandalorians have been fighting <i>jetti</i> for thousands of years. When she breaks the standstill with a flurry of blows, the <i>jetti</i> stumbles and is forced backwards a few steps. She’s still frustratingly good, ducking under what would have been fatal blows for most and moving fast enough to keep Arla outside of her guard. But Arla’s relentless, furious. She can’t hammer against the Padawan’s blade but she swings her sword fast enough that the girl cannot rest. Even with such a light blade, she must be tiring.<br/>
<br/>
Tired people make mistakes.<br/>
<br/>
And finally, Arla sees her opening; the <i>jetti’s</i> heel hits a rock and she stumbles, her blade lowering for a just split second as if to catch herself. She hits the girl’s wrist with the flat of her blade and then steps forward, too close for the girl to wield her <i>jetti’kad</i>. The drawback of such a long blade. She hits the girl across the face and then against the head with her sword hilt (she has it on good source that <i>jetti </i>find it harder to use the force on a concussion) and then pulls back to stab the girl through the chest.<br/>
<br/>
Something shoves against her chest, hard, then lifts her up and throws her.<br/>
<br/>
Weightless for just a second and then the ground rushing towards her. She tries to tuck her body into a roll but her senses are dazed. She lands gracelessly for the second time today. Hard. She hears a crack in her chest and she coughs, tasting metallic. There’s pain down her side, spiking when she breaths in. Broken ribs then. Fuck, Arla hates broken ribs. Her left arm is slightly numb. With a groan, she braces one gloved hand on the snow and pushes herself into a crouch, her head spinning.<br/>
<br/>
The hum of the <i>jetti’kad</i> is what saves her.<br/>
<br/>
Instinctively, she throws herself to the side, pain flaring up as she does a clumsy somersault and comes up into a lunge. It’s the lead <i>jetti</i>, Dooku, blue lightsaber held out to their side. She hisses in pain as she shifts her weight wrong and ends up twisting the side with the broken ribs. Dooku looks barely scratched, standing with a strangely malicious type of grace. She’s outmatched. Badly outmatched.<br/>
<br/>
When they attack, it’s a whirl of precise slashes that Arla can barely dodge. She stumbles backwards, clumsily parrying a single-handed slash and feeling her skin burn where she blocked with her arm. The next thrust is aimed at her injured side and she can barely move that arm now, so she has to twist to avoid being skewered. Mistake. Her side erupts into pain and she bites down hard on a scream. Her feet are stumbling over the ground and then they slip on something and she lands with a grunt.<br/>
<br/>
When her vision clears, she’s staring down a blade, poised directly over her visor. Dooku’s lips curl up to flash teeth, a smirk or a snarl more than a smile. She struggles, trying to get up, panic racing through her system, but her body simply doesn’t listen to her. She’s pinned. She knows she’s pinned. She’s dead.<br/>
<br/>
Then the <i>jetti’s</i> eyes widen just a fraction and they whirl around and parry two or three bolts. Leaving their back to Arla. Mistake. Suddenly, she’s not frozen anymore. With a pained grunt, she rolls onto her lower back and then kicks the backs of the man’s knees. They fold like a table. Arla rolls away, taking gulps of air.<br/>
<br/>
For a few seconds her vision blurs and when it clears, it’s to see an <i>haat’ad</i> bodily charge the <i>jetti</i>. No - she starts forward - the Mandalorian - Ruusaan, her name is Ruusaan - is no match for Dooku. But even as she pulls out her Westars to lay fire, she knows she’s too late. She sees the mistake but she’s too slow, she can’t do anything (why can’t she do anything, why is she useless). With an elegant sweep, Dooku severs Ruu’s head.<br/>
<br/>
It hits the ground even as her body sways.<br/>
<br/>
Arla staggers back, gasping. Nausea rises up inside her and she viciously pushes down on it - she’s seen <i>haat’ade</i> die before, what is wrong with her? She has to get out of here, she has to. Fumbling fingers slip over the control pad and activate her jetpack. She kicks up into the air, her flight graceless and so different from the way she’d soared into battle. Dooku stretches out a hand and the air around her seems to gel. On instinct she fires shot after shot, at the same time kicking backwards. He’s forced to drop the fragile grip he has on her to deflect the bolts and she shoots away.<br/>
<br/>
Maybe if she gets up into the air and looks at the situation from above, it’ll be better. She’ll be able to see the true scope. For a few seconds, she dares to hope that maybe the situation isn’t as much of a clusterfuck as it looks like from the ground. Then she looks down and her stomach drops below her feet.<br/>
<br/>
It’s worse, much, much worse.<br/>
<br/>
The <i>jetti</i> have breached the <i>haat’ade</i> camp and the crates that they’d taken shelter behind are strewn haphazardly, nowhere to hide anymore. There are bodies laying broken all over the stained red snow; some are robed and some are covered in the thick furs of the Galidraanian rebels. But Mandalorian armor glints against the snowpack. Too much. The majority of the <i>haat’ade</i> still standing are clustered together against a snowbank. Trapped and surrounded. Not one hundred feet away from them, the shipyards lie. But there’s nowhere for them to move. As she watches, one makes a desperate attempt to jetpack over their heads. A <i>jetti</i> slashes them in two. There are a few Mandalorians separated from the group, little dots of metal in a sea of hostiles. Arla knows with a sickening certainty that they’re dead. No. That they’re all dead.<br/>
<br/>
She’s buffeted by waves of despair. They’re dead.<br/>
<br/>
She could get away. She could get away right now, the <i>jetti</i> don’t seem to have noticed her and she’s hovering too far above their heads for any of them to catch her with their <i>jetti </i>magic. The shipyards don’t seem to be manned. She could be on a ship away from this planet before they even realize that she’s gone.<br/>
<br/>
Then she feels sick. How could she even think of that? She swore the <i>resol’nare</i>, the <i>haat’ade</i> are her family and as their <i>mand’alor</i>, she’s sworn to protect them. Without them, she is nothing. Without them, she is <i>dar’manda.</i><br/>
<br/>
She slams her despair into an iron box the way she’d been trained to do and then her head clears. She twists and jets down to land next to Rasa, whipping someone across the back of the head with her Westar. Settles into a fighting guard, her left arm useless at her side. An armored shoulder presses against hers just a second, a touch of warmth and comfort. <i>Ni hukaatii’gar shebs ti kama.</i> I’m covering your back.<br/>
<br/>
She tilts her visor up to stare a man in the eye.<br/>
<br/>
She’ll die here, surrounded by her people. She knows this with a certainty. And so a deep calm settles down upon her, even as she hits the man on the head and then drops another with two shots.<br/>
<br/>
It’s just death. What is there to worry about? She feels a sudden need to laugh.<br/>
<br/>
And now that she’s accepted her imminent <i>kyr’am</i>, the strangest thing happens. Somewhere in her, she feels hope burning. They’re <i>mandokarla</i>, all of them. They’ll make it out. How was she so ready to roll over and die? Her people are beside her and at her back, fighting. So will she. She’s not going to die. She’s not going to die on some tiny planet just because someone tried to double cross her.<br/>
<br/>
She’ll get out of here. Because she has to.<br/>
<br/>
With a roar, she throws herself at the next <i>aruetti</i>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Bit of a shorter chapter this time around, slightly more psychological (have i mentioned how much i fucking hate this one?), hope you guys liked it! No beta this chapter, I really wanted to get its ass out of the door and never see it ever again.</p><p>Come chat with me on tumblr @a-dumb-writing-gay</p><p>jetti'kad - lightsaber (literally jedi's sword)<br/>jetti - Jedi<br/>Kyr'stad - Death Watch<br/>aruettise - foreigners, may also mean traitors in context (plural, singular -&gt; aruetti)<br/>buy'ce - helmet<br/>shabla - fucking<br/>beskad - a Mandalorian sword, 2 - 3 feet long, forged of beskar<br/>beskar - Mandalorian iron<br/>haat'ad - shortening of haat mando'ad, which means True Mandalorian (literally true child of Mandalore)<br/>resol'nare - the six tenets that make someone a Mandalorian<br/>mand'alor - leader (literally single ruler)<br/>dar'manda - soulless, not a Mandalorian, considered the worst fate possible for a Mandalorian<br/>Ni hukaatii’gar shebs ti kama - I'm covering your back<br/>kyr'am - death<br/>mandokarla - having Mandalorian traits, strong and tough, unwilling to give up, stubborn</p><p>Mando vocab from mandoa.org, Mando grammar from https://docs.google.com/document/d/1UCaWkZQDw0HVUujqsCvmgW_Nw5gBOAWPFMtRC4Q6yBY/edit. As always, please let me know about any typos + give feedback!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3: Jango</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A wild Jango has appeared!!</p><p>Or Chapter 1 from the perspective of Jango ;)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There's a lot of mando'a in this one, the formatting nearly killed me.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jango paces back and forth a few rounds, kicking around a piece of ice. It shatters into pieces. He stares at it for a second, then walks over to where Myles is standing, visor tilted up at the sky. “<i>Tion kaysh yaimpa?”</i></p><p>With a long-suffering sigh, Myles turns his head back towards Jango. <i>“Nayc. Gar kar’tayli nayc.”</i></p><p>Jango hisses in frustration at the negative and then tilts his visor up to survey the sky too, mirroring Myles' pose. He knows that Arla’s not back yet but it’s been worryingly long. She’d said that she would return within the hour and she’s late. In the ordinary, that would be nothing to worry about. But something about the planet makes Jango uneasy; he doesn’t trust the governor and he doesn’t like the job. It feels off. But he trusts Arla’s judgement; she’s rarely led the <i>haat’ade</i> wrong. So he settles down to wait, reaches into his belt pouch to pull out a flask of <i>tihaar.</i></p><p>Then in the edge of his vision Myles makes a jerky move and Jango glances at him in surprise. Myles is level-headed; that’s why he’s the second in command and Jango is third. He doesn’t swear or lose his head in a firefight, but Jango knows that he holds his tensions in his shoulders, and now his entire body is stiff.</p><p>That worries Jango more than Arla’s absence. If Myles is worried, Jango should definitely be losing his head.</p><p>“<i>Me’bana?”</i></p><p>Myles’ voice is curt. “<i>Ni olaro teh kebbur jorhaa’kaysh.”</i></p><p><i>Fuck.</i> Arla doesn’t miss comms. Jango stands up, ready to go after her but Myles places a restraining hand on his shoulder. Jango snarls in frustration. “<i>Me’ven?”</i></p><p>“<i>Jan’ika, pare sol.”</i></p><p>He stares at Myles in disbelief. Arla’s in danger and Myles is telling him to wait? “<i>Gev!”</i></p><p>“<i>Nu draar.”</i></p><p>“<i>Tion gar copaani kaysh kyr’am ra tion gar gana jaro?”</i> As soon as the words leave his mouth, Jango regrets them. They’re unfair, harsh. Myles recoils and for a second looks furious.</p><p>Then he sighs slowly. “<i>Jan’ika, gedet’ye.”</i></p><p>“<i>Nayc, gar-“</i> Jango tries a move that he’s seen Arla pull to knock Myles’ arm away. Myles’s arm buckles for a minute but then he grabs Jango’s wrist, tries to twist it behind his back. With a snarl, Jango bucks against his grip, lands a solid blow against Myles’ chest plate and breaks free.</p><p>“Jango,” Myles hisses. “<i>Ke’gar shi sushi ni.” </i></p><p>“<i>Kaysh ret vaal burk’yc.”</i></p><p>“<i>’Lek. ‘Lek, ni kartayli ret.”</i> That takes the wind out of Jango’s sails for a second and then his anger and worry rise again.</p><p>“<i>Meh gar kartayli, ke’gar dar’gaanayli ni.”</i></p><p>“Jango-"</p><p>He gets up into Myles’ face and stares into the blue-tinted visor, which is frustratingly placid. Jango doesn’t understand. She’s in danger. <i>Why won’t Myles - “Ke’gar dar’gaannayli ni.”</i> A beat. Jango grits his teeth and forces his voice steady. “<i>Myles, ni nu trakkor’o draar bat Arla.”</i></p><p>“<i>Tayli. A ni sushi. Gedet’ye.”</i> Jango glares, considering knocking Myles onto his ass. The fact that he doesn’t is invitation for Myles to continue. “<i>Jango, cuun nu tayli naas be banar. Arla mandokarla bal dral’verd. Kaysh lise brokar shu’shuk.”</i></p><p>“<i>Kaysh solus,” </i>Jango protests.</p><p>“<i>Bal meh cuun slana’ogir, nu kar’tayl be bana?”</i> He phrases it like a question but in that annoying tone he adopts when he knows perfectly well what the answer is. Jango tamps down on the need to scowl and cross his arms; he isn’t a child.</p><p>Instead, he grudgingly considers Myles’ words to- <i>oh fuck. So he’s an idiot.</i></p><p>“Jaone b’akaan?” <i>Jas’buir crossed his arms. </i></p><p><i>Jango rolled his eyes and replied in a sing-song voice, dragging out the syllables, </i>“Kar’tayl. Buir, ni nu suvari jorbe ni liniba tatugir meg."</p><p><i>His buir smiled down at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling softly and reached out with one hand to pat his mussed up curls. </i>“Jate, Jan’ika. Bal jaon’yc.”</p><p><i>Jango rolled his eyes but smiled back at Jaster. </i>“‘Lek, buir.” <i>Even at nine, he hadn’t been naive. He knew that one day Jaster would march on, far away without him. All Mandalorians, even children, knew about death and knew that one day even their family would go. But it still hurt with a sharp type of pain he’d never felt before when he and Arla held a bloodied, older, grayer and lined Jaster in their arms, his eyes closed and face empty.</i></p><p><i>First rule of war. Know your enemy. Fuck. </i>Slowly Jango’s breathing evens out and then the embarrassment hits. He buries his <i>buc'ye</i> in his gloved hands. “<i>N’eparavu takisit."</i></p><p>“<i>Ba’gedet’ye.” </i>Myles’ voice is light but Jango feels a stab of guilt. Sometimes he wonders how many gray hairs he’s given the poor man. “<i>Gar suvari.”</i></p><p>Jango sits down on a rock with a sigh, his face burning underneath his<i> buc'ye.</i> He scuffs at the ground with one boot. “<i>Ni ne, Myles.”</i></p><p>“<i>Naas.”</i> There’s an awkward beat of silence then Myles clears his throat and continues, “<i>Gar nu nu serim meg lise kad’Arla.”</i></p><p>Jango swallows as his worries rise again but this time he tries to keep a cap on it. Focuses on keeping his voice level. “<i>‘Lek.”</i> It’s not wrong to worry about people who he cares about. Everybody has emotions but a part of Mandalorian training is learning not to let them overwhelm your logic. He closes his eyes like he’s been taught, visualizes his emotions (a swirling mass inside his chest) and tries to close a durasteel box around them. His mind doesn’t clear immediately but the panic fades and when he repeats, “<i>‘Lek.</i>” his voice is smoother. More fitting of a Mandalorian supercommando. He gathers his thoughts. “<i>Tion cuun tayli bat urci?” </i></p><p>Myles clicks his tongue, considering the question. “<i>Ge’naas. Taap. Ca’nara.”</i></p><p>All intel Jango knows. And not enough to go off on. He’d hoped that Myles knows something more but he doesn’t and it would be sloppy for Jango to bring the <i>haat’ade</i> running into what might be a clusterfuck shoot-out. Not just sloppy, irresponsible, stupid. He clenches his teeth in frustration and turns his visor back up to the sky. He doesn’t say that there’s nothing they can do; both Myles and Jango know that already.</p><p>As a kid, Jango had always had issues controlling his impulses. He used to get some half-baked idea up in his head and run off. It was dangerous. He hasn’t gotten much better. <i>The box</i>, he reminds himself. <i>The box. </i>He tries to visualize the walls of the durasteel box around his emotions.</p><p><i>Mando’ade</i> aren’t <i>jettise</i>, they don’t walk around believing that emotions shouldn’t exist. In the right situation, your emotions can sharpen your senses, make you stronger. You should never cut yourself off from them. But sometimes they can blind you. You need to recognize when it’s going to be overwhelming and you need to know when you have to remove them.</p><p>Even though Jango’s staring at the sky, he’s focused on keeping his worries from spilling over the brim of his box. Which is why when Myles starts forward, it takes Jango a beat to find what he’s seen. Then he sees it; there’s a figure rapidly shooting closer against the bright blue sky, body streamlined and the sun glinting off of their <i>beskar</i>. Arla. He opens his helmet comms. “<i>Arla! Arla, cuun haa’tayl gar!”</i> Nothing. A heavier type of fear settles into his stomach. “<i>Arla, gar slana ori’iviin’yc!”</i> Nothing but grainy white noise. Jango’s blasters are in his hands, when did he draw them?</p><p>He clicks on his range finder. It’s definitely Arla’s armor and he can see the tension streamlining the figure’s body. Myles pulls him a few steps back; they’re going far too fast, there’s nothing Jango can do to stop them. He cringes in anticipation of the landing; the figure tries to pull their body up into a roll a few feet before they connect but they hit the ground hard with a grunt. A familiar sounding grunt. It’s definitely Arla. Relief floods his system.</p><p>He holsters a blaster, rushes forward, reaching out to pull her up but she groans and then gets one arm under her and pushes herself to her feet. Her movements are jerky and panicked; an icicle of fear stabs his stomach and he begins, “<i>Arla. Ori’vod -”</i></p><p>Then something moves at the edge of his vision. He looks up over Arla’s <i>buy’ce</i> to see a group of sentients picking their way through the treeline. They’re wearing brown robes and tunics, dressed in linens and carry themselves with a strange type of grace.</p><p>
  <i>Fuck.</i>
</p><p>He's never seen one before but he would be stupid not to recognize them.</p><p>The <i>jettise </i>have come to Galidraan.</p><p>In front of him, Arla stiffens and then whirls around; from the jerk in her shoulders, he can tell that she knows it’s bad. The <i>haat’ade</i> flank Jango; Myles steps forward from behind him and the entire line inches up with him until they’re a sparse meter behind Arla.</p><p>A moment of growing tension as they survey each other. The silence drags longer; Jango opens his mouth two times, considering what to say but can find nothing. Around him the snow begins to fall in earnest, little flakes landing on his pauldrons and chilling his skin.</p><p>They’re waiting. Waiting for Arla’s orders. But he realizes with a jolt that Arla isn’t giving orders, probably can’t give orders. Her comms must have been damaged. But nevertheless she seems to come to a conclusion; one gloved hand comes up, folds down two fingers and then gestures slowly. <i>Back up. Slowly.</i></p><p>“<i>Norac,”</i> Myles barks over the comm.</p><p>With clinks of <i>beskar</i>, the <i>haat’ade </i>slowly edge backwards.  Further. Further. Until Arla’s fist closes sharply. They stop just at the edge of their encampment. Immediately, the <i>haat’ade</i> take shelter behind the large durasteel crates that had held their supplies but Arla doesn’t move and so Jango stays at her shoulder.</p><p>His gaze remains fixed on the <i>aruettise.</i></p><p><i>Jettise.</i> Jango’s never met one but he’s heard the stories, the <i>jetti’kad’e </i>and the telekinesis and the brutal conflicts that erupted whenever <i>mando’ade</i> and <i>jettise</i> came face to face. Their combined history is stained and splattered with blood. <i>Jas’buir</i> had never said he hated them but he’d never said he liked them either. He certainly didn’t trust them. And now here they are, face to face with what has to be twenty of them and the tension is almost unbearable.</p><p>Jango had filled himself up with fear and worry and now it overflows and suddenly he’s furious. <i>Kriffing jettise.</i> He clenches one fist tighter around his blaster, levels it neatly. He doesn’t realize he’s growling until Arla tilts her head the slightest and murmurs, “<i>Udessi, vod’ika.</i>” Jango hisses softly but loosens his jaw and his fingers, which are beginning to ache from squeezing the handles of his pistols.</p><p><i>Shab,</i> he hates this planet.</p><p>The wind blows, pushing against his plates and whistling into the gaps in his <i>beskar</i>. It lifts Arla’s ragged cape up and makes it dance in the air. Across the field, the clouds of the <i>jettise’s</i> frozen breath blur away and their robes flip around their ankles. Arla’s been silent, but Jango can tell that she’s not relaxing. He's seen this stance, the one she adopts when she's surveying a fight. Her Westars are at her sides but he knows that she can fire in an instant. On their part, the <i>jettise</i> seem none too eager to break the stillness.</p><p>Stalemate.</p><p>Then in an elegant motion, the lead<i> jetti</i> steps forward. Jango clicks his pistols to kill and takes aim. Around him, blasters raise in a smooth motion, but Arla’s remain at her sides, even as she pushes their safeties off. She’s waiting. The haat’ade need to wait too.</p><p>“<i>Ke’pare,”</i> he murmurs into the comms (no point in shouting, as long as they can hear him). He can hear muttering in the comms and the muzzles don't lower but they don't fire either.</p><p>“Mandalore Mereel, I presume?” The <i>jetti </i>across the clearing begins.</p><p>Arla responds in Basic, in a surprisingly calm tone (Arla was always good at talking), “Fett actually. And you are?”</p><p>Jango tunes out the man’s next words, turns his head from side to side, taking stock of the situation — he trusts that Myles would warn him if he were in danger. Twenty <i>jettise</i>. At least. And Arla might be trying to talk them down but they’re not here to listen; too many have their <i>jetti’kad'e</i> in their hands already.</p><p>He switches his comms to a private channel. “<i>Myles?”</i></p><p>“<i>Val nu dajuna sushir.”</i></p><p>“<i>Akaan. Ne sole ad’eta.</i>” There’s more movement in the trees. His eyes flick to his feed; his infrared has picked up a mass of sentients there too. <i>Shab.</i> He adds, “<i>Bal ori’adade lo kuroshi’tsad.</i>”</p><p>Myles hisses under his breath (that’s bad, that’s bad, he registers distantly, if Myles is worried I should be kriffing worried) and begins, “<i>Cuun lini-</i>" Then his voice turns hard in anger; in front of Jango, Arla jerks and Jango starts forward a step, a snarl building in his throat.</p><p>But she’s okay, not injured. He relaxes for a second. Then the comms begin crackling as curses fly in <i>mando’a,</i> the <i>haat’ade</i> reacting to something that Jango hadn’t caught.</p><p>“<i>Shabla chakaar</i>.”</p><p>“<i>Jettise-</i>"</p><p>“<i>Kaysh sirbu cuun darjaat’kyrise-</i>“ The voice is half furious, half disbelieving.</p><p>Myle interrupts them, his voice raised just enough to cut through the muttering. “<i>Kuur!</i>” Instantly, they fall silent.</p><p>Then the implication of the words hits Jango. The <i>jettise</i>, the lead <i>jetti</i>, called them murderers. An occupation that tends to be punishable by Republic law. From there, it’s not a long stretch to figure out why they’re here. He lets out a low, disgust filled snarl. Just in front of him, Arla’s still, ramrod still, except for her shoulders which rise up and down as she takes deep, steadying breaths.</p><p>Jango wishes he could just drop this facade and shiv Dooku in the stomach but he’s not stupid. He knows the odds are poor just as he knows that there’s going to be a fight.</p><p>“<i>Jango</i>.” It’s Myles, over the comms again. This time, Jango keeps on ear on the conversation. It seems to be nearing a breaking point and he doesn’t want to be caught off guard.</p><p>“<i>Tion gar tayli cuun parjii?</i>”</p><p>“<i>Nayc</i>.”</p><p>Myles has always been blunt and never one to pull his punches, but he’s rarely been wrong. Something turns over in Jango’s stomach; he wishes he could cut the comms to swear. “<i>Meh’ibac, cuun lini tok’kad.</i>”</p><p>“<i>Val acyk cuun bal me’sene.</i>”</p><p>“<i>‘Lek, tayli.</i>” Jango lets annoyance flood into his voice; Myles chuckles dryly. “<i>Sen’trese?</i>”</p><p>Myles sounds thoughtful, a foil to the rapidly lighting panic in Jango’s chest. “<i>Ret. Cuyla nayc.</i>” How can he say <i>osik</i> like that so calmly? Jango squeezes the grip of one of his blasters. Unprompted, his mind flashes an image of Arla, slumped over still in the snow with gashes all over her chest plate. Fuck. Fuck. His breathing is reaching a peak. <i>Box</i>, he reminds himself. Pushes down on the fears rising up inside of him. <i>Box. </i>Deep breath. <i>Osik,</i> he’s fought battles before. Why’s he losing his shit only now?</p><p>“Jango?”</p><p>He takes a deep breath. “<i>‘Lek.</i>” Okay. Okay. He visualizes a volume button on his thoughts and tries to turn it down until the buzzing in his mind quiets a few notches and his stomach is only slightly jittery.</p><p>Which of course is when there’s a yell. “<i>Tra’cyar mar!</i>” Arla, it seems, has lost her cool. There’s a snap-hiss of sabers, suddenly a charging line of <i>jettise,</i> and blaster bolts flying through the air. In an instant, his Westars are firing too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There it is! If it was a bit unclear, this is the same time frame as Chapter 1, only told from Jango's perspective. He's a little bit of a mess but it's okay, we love him anyways ;)</p><p>As always, my tumblr is @a-dumb-writing-gay!!!</p><p>Mando'a Translations (a disclaimer that some of these sentences might make no grammatical sense):<br/>Tion kaysh yaimpa? - Have they (she in this context) returned?<br/>Nayc. Gar kar'tayli nayc. - No. You know she didn't.<br/>haat'ade - True Mandalorians (abbreviation of haat mando'ade)<br/>tihaar - an alcoholic drink<br/>Me'bana? - What happened?<br/>Ni olaro teh kebbur jorhaa'kaysh - I just tried to comm her (literally: I come from trying to speak to her)<br/>Me'ven? - What?<br/>Jan'ika, pare sol - Jango, wait one<br/>Gev! - Stop it!<br/>Nu draar - no way (Mandalorians use double negatives for emphasis so this literally means "not never"<br/>Tion gar copaani kaysh kyr’am ra tion gar gana jaro? - Do you want her to die or do you have a death wish?<br/>Jan'ika, gedet'ye - Jango, please<br/>Nayc, gar - No, you<br/>Ke'gar shi sushi ni - Just listen to me<br/>Kaysh ret vaal burk'yc - She could be in danger<br/>'Lek - yeah<br/>'Lek, ni kartayli ret - yeah, I know she could<br/>Meh gar kartayli, ke'gar dar'gaanayli ni - If you know, let me go (dar'gaanayli means release, its made by combining dar, which is a negative prefix or means not and gaanaylir, which means to catch)<br/>Myles, ni nu trakkor'o draar bat Arla - (Myles, I can't lose her)<br/>Tayli - I know<br/>A ni shushi - But listen to me<br/>Gedet'ye - Please<br/>Jango, cuun nu tayli naas be banar. Arla mandokarla bal dral’verd. Kaysh lise brokar shu’shuk. - Jango, we don’t know anything that’s going on. Arla is a fierce fighter. She can handle herself.<br/>Kaysh solus - She's alone<br/>Bal meh cuun slana'ogir, nu kar'tayl be bana? - And if we go there with no knowledge of what’s happening?<br/>Jaone b'akaan - First rule of war?<br/>Kar’tayl. Buir, ni nu suvari jorbe ni liniba tatugir meg - Knowledge. Dad, I don’t know why I have to repeat that<br/>Jate, Jan'ika. Bal jaon'yc - Good, Jango. And it's important<br/>N'eparavu takisit - Sorry<br/>Ba'gedet'ye - normally means you're welcome, in this context means no problem<br/>Gar suvari - I understand<br/>Ni ne - I'm sorry (this one is more serious)<br/>Naas - It's okay, literally means nothing<br/>Gar nu nu serim meg lise kad'Arla - you weren't wrong that Arla could be in danger<br/>Tion cuun tayli bat urci? - What do we know about the meeting?<br/>Ge'naas. Taap. Ca'nara. - Not much. Location. Time<br/>jettise - Jedi (plural, jetti -&gt; singular)<br/>cuun haa'tayl gar - we see you<br/>gar slana ori'iviin'yc - you're going too fast<br/>Ori'vod - older sibling (sister in this context)<br/>buy'ce - helmet<br/>Norac - back<br/>aruettise - foreigners, enemies<br/>jetti'kad'e - lightsabers (singular -&gt; jetti'kad)<br/>Udessi, vod'ika - calm down, little sibling (brother in this context)<br/>Shab - fuck<br/>Ke'pare - wait<br/>Val nu dajuna sushir. - They won’t listen (they don’t plan to listen)<br/>Akaan. Ne sole ad'eta - There will be a fight. I count twenty<br/>Bal ori'adade lo korushi'stad - And more in the trees<br/>Cuun lini - we need<br/>Shabla chakaar - fucking bastard<br/>Kaysh sirbu cuun darjaat’kyrise - He called us murderers (murderer is a word i made up by squishing together dar’ijaat’kyramud, which literally means honorless killer (because I guess in mando culture an assassin/killer can have honor but a murderer doesn’t) by dropping a lot of syllables. The singular of murderer is dar’jaatkyra<br/>Kuur - quiet<br/>Tion gar tayli cun parjii? - You think we will win?<br/>Nayc - no<br/>Meh’ibac, cuun lini tok’kad - Then we need to retreat, literally if that, we need retreat<br/>Val acyv cuun bal me'sene - They're between us and the ships.<br/>Sen'trese? - Jetpacks?<br/>Ret. Cuyla nayc - Maybe. Probably not.<br/>osik - shit<br/>Tra'cyar mar - fire at will</p><p>All mando'a taken from mandoa.org!! Please let me know about any typos :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4: Obi-Wan</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The shuttle shudders as it breaches atmo and Obi-Wan, squeezed between his master and another apprentice, braces his body, trying not to knock into either of them. To his right, Komari tilts her blond head towards him and nudges his shoulder. “Nervous?”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Obi-Wan: I have childhood trauma :DDD</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The shuttle shudders as it breaches atmo and Obi-Wan, squeezed between his master and another apprentice, braces his body, trying not to knock into either of them. To his right, Komari tilts her blond head towards him and nudges his shoulder. “Nervous?” He’s been glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes throughout the flight and she’s almost been bouncing in her seat. Now her eyes are wide and her Force presence sings with excitement.</p>
<p>He swallows, tucks his chin to his chest. Considers his words and the thick cloud inside of him. Komari Vosa. Master Dooku’s apprentice and already one of the best Padawan duelists in the Order. It isn’t that he dislikes her, per say. It’s that he doesn’t trust her to understand. He doesn’t understand why, just a feeling that he’s gotten; he casts around for words to explain to himself. She isn’t cruel but he’s always felt that she could be- he pushes down on that thought, chiding himself. He is being unfair. Komari is a very competent Padawan (far better than him, a tiny voice whispers).</p>
<p>But he’s been feeling off and he doesn’t think she would understand. Nothing bad, just little twinges of discomfort and a phantom feeling like a hand pulling at his shoulder. Demanding him to turn around. He squeezes the hilt of his lightsaber, the ridges pressing almost painfully into his skin.</p>
<p>Then with another shudder (beside him he hears Qui-Gon mutter, “Where the kark did they find this junk?”), the ship levels out and then suddenly Galidraan looms before them, covered in ice and jagged stones grasping for the skies. As he stares at it, frozen, something rushes up inside of him, a flood of emotions, and then suddenly he doubles over, feeling as if he has just been kicked in the stomach. The metaphorical butterflies in his stomach seem to be beating their wings; his nausea rises and becomes almost overwhelming. His head is pounding; he feels as though a giant hand is pressing down between his shoulder blades.</p>
<p>Somewhere inside of him, he can register a feeling of cold dread, icicles flash-freezing inside his stomach. He’s frantically struggling to stay in the present, squeezing his fists (the ridges of the lightsaber will be indented into his palm) and then-</p>
<p>
  <i>A scream and sudden motion, explosions ripping apart the field and spraying it with blood. “Get back!” a deep voice roars.</i>
</p>
<p>Then the world abruptly comes into focus again, the scraped floor of the shuttle. Obi-Wan has to go; he has to run; he has to <i>leave</i>. There is something wrong with this planet, he knows this with a sickening certainty. Somehow, <i>somehow</i>, he has to take this ship and get the Jedi away from here.</p>
<p>Abruptly, a hand grabs his chin and then shakes him, jerking him out of his swirling thoughts. He hears as if from the bottom of a stream a voice hissing, “Obi-Wan. <i>Obi-Wan</i>.” It takes him a second to realize that his face has been lifted and Qui-Gon is staring at him. Obi-Wan registers faintly that Qui-Gon is sending badly masked annoyance down their training bond; he’s making a scene. Some part of him that’s annoyingly detached and surgical knows that he’s having a panic attack. He needs to ground himself.</p>
<p>Slowly, his breathing evens out and his vision clears, the pain across his chest lifting. As he uncurls himself from his hunch, he presses down on the nausea that threatens to rise again.</p>
<p>Qui-Gon drops his hand but continues staring at Obi-Wan; after a few seconds, the constant scrutiny begins to make Obi-Wan want to squirm, so he shifts in his seat and turns his head away from Qui-Gon’s presence. He loves his master, but sometimes just being near Qui-Gon feels suffocating, like his face is being pressed into a pillow.</p>
<p>But Komari is staring at him too; as he uncomfortably glances around the shuttle, he realizes that the swirling turmoil in the Force is because of him. Of how he acted. They’re all looking at him and he’s quite sure that he senses badly concealed disgust.</p>
<p>His stomach twists uncomfortably and he tries to slide down slightly in his seat (although the uncomfortable harness holding him in place doesn’t give very far), hunching his shoulders forward and his cheeks burning. Jedi aren’t supposed to be arrogant or foolish, but they’re trained to have level heads, to remain calm. This is ridiculous; he’s had battle jitters before, but nothing like this. He’s never felt that he would physically throw up. And it’s just his luck that he breaks down <i>now</i>, in a shuttle full of other Jedi, his master and his grandmaster watching him and each other with sharp eyes. He knows that he’s just embarrassed his master, badly.</p>
<p>He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself.</p>
<p>A Jedi doesn’t hold onto their emotions and their worries. They release them into the Force, release their distractions, and their path forward becomes clear.</p>
<p>But when Obi-Wan tries to settle himself down into the gentle embrace of the Force, the buffeting and worries peak again, trapped inside his head. He jerks himself out of the meditation as it threatens to become overwhelming and settles back into his seat.</p>
<p>Then with another godforsaken shudder that this time actually rattles Obi-Wan’s teeth, the shuttle touches down. Immediately, Obi-Wan’s battle jitters (he firmly tells himself they are battle jitters) flare up. The other Jedi stand up with varying degrees of enthusiasm (Komari almost springs to her feet) and Obi-Wan sits for a few seconds, wishing that he could stay behind, or better yet, just run. But he can feel Qui-Gon’s quiet impatience burning at him. He grits his teeth and slowly pushes himself up, lining up to walk out of the shuttle.</p>
<p>The air on Galidraan is cold, crisp, and clean. But for Obi-Wan, for some reason he can’t understand, it smells for a brief second like metallic pools of spilled blood.</p>
<p>------------------------------</p>
<p><i>Mand’alor</i> Fett points one gloved hand at the Jedi and yells something. Most of the words are lost in the roaring wind. What filters across the clearing is snatches of what he vaguely recognizes as <i>mando’a</i>. But his head is throbbing so hard he can barely register what is happening, much less understand her words. Which is why when the first blaster bolts come streaking across the clearing, Qui-Gon has to grab Obi-Wan by the back of the robes and haul him aside. But too slow; a blaster bolt scorches across his cheekbone.</p>
<p>A sharp spike of pain.</p>
<p>It’s as if he’s being pulled out of the bottom of a river. His vision and his mind instantly clear as the spike of adrenaline hits. Before he grows quite aware of what he’s doing, his lightsaber is out and lit and batting away reddish-orange plasma bolts and his mind has settled into a very clean type of calm, like staring into a deep pool of water, just as empty and smooth. And just as dark.</p>
<p>It feels as though his body is moving on autopilot, without his mind dictating. He dodges, somersaults, swinging his body and his blade in the rigorous flips and twists of Ataru. It’s surprisingly easy fighting against a group of what are supposed to be the best warriors in the galaxy. But although his perception of time is skewed in this empty mind, he’s quite aware that only perhaps a few minutes have passed since the first shots. The storm hasn’t struck yet.</p>
<p>As if on cue, a whoosh nearly deafens Obi-Wan and he reflexively throws himself out of the way, exposed bits of his skin already blistering from the hot backwash of the jetpack. The Mandalorian charges him, alternating shots from their blasters with jets of flame.</p>
<p>Ataru has many, many openings; it compensates for its weaknesses with its powerful strokes and relative agility. But it’s also a tiring, very very demanding form, unlike the efficiency of Soresu or Makashi. Normally, Obi-Wan draws on the Force for speed and strength and the split second precognition he needs to avoid being fried. But today the Force seems unwilling to lend him its strength. When a blindingly fast move leaves a burn mark across the bridge of his nose and nearly crisps his eyelashes, he snarls in frustration and prods the Force hard, like a child petulantly pounding their fist against their mother’s leg.</p>
<p>It responds with overwhelming calm -- and nothing else. If anything, it seems to pull away; he feels the distinct flavor of a warm embrace turning cold and then suddenly the energy flowing through his body seems to dull.</p>
<p>He nearly stumbles, a deadly mistake to make when fighting a Mandalorian. One armored leg kicks his out from under his body; he lands with a jarring thud on the snow, his teeth rattling in his skull and his temple clipping a rock. Unwillingly, he lets a yelp slip out from between his now numb and snow-frosted lips. There’s a hard pain against his lightsaber arm; the Mandalorian has planted a boot on the forearm, pinning it useless.</p>
<p>When he squints up at the silhouette of the Mandalorian, framed against the blindingly white rising sun and a blaster already raised, a whisper weaves through his mind.<i> Look. Watch,</i> it urges him. Angrily, he shoves it away (now is not the time for the Force to give him crackpot suggestions) and frantically casts his mind around for anything to throw. Nothing. He stretches out further. Something, something,<i> anything.</i> He tries to lift the snow up but it’s tiny particles, pointless.</p>
<p>His breath is picking up and he’s vaguely aware that he’s probably panicking. He can’t help it, can’t always keep his mind cool and blank and emotionless. He’s going to kriffing <i>die.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>Look. Watch. </i>
</p>
<p>He shoves hard. The Force tries to tell him to watch, but refuses to help him escape. Watch what? Watch himself die? He laughs almost hysterically, a sharp choked noise falling out into the snow.</p>
<p>
  <i>Watch.</i>
</p>
<p>He’s faced death before, but he’s never felt this type of debilitating fear. The Force has abandoned him. Does that mean he will truly die this time? He- <i>LOOK.</i> It’s like a yell in his head, snaps himself out of the death spiral that he’s slipped into. Wait. Why hasn’t he died already? Why didn’t the Mandalorian shoot him?</p>
<p>He glances up but this time the figure somehow doesn’t seem as imposing as it had a few moments before. Now there’s a sort of tenseness around it, the Force swirling in reddish, disturbed currents. The hand holding the blaster is shaking; he can see the minute movement that ripples down the barrel. The Mandalorian is as frozen as he is.</p>
<p>There’s a brief second of silence, him panting and trying to hold in sharp gasping noises, the Mandalorian utterly frozen, flashes reflecting off of their visor. Then they speak, a slow, halting tone, genderless and mechanical but somehow so, so warm that for some strange reason, Obi-Wan almost sobs. “<i>Shab, ad-</i>”</p>
<p>The voice cuts abruptly into a gurgle of pain and a low hum of a lightsaber. Then a single drop of blood works its way out from the bottom of the blue-ish gray helmet and slides down the chestplate. Obi-Wan’s eyes follow it, uncomprehendingly, down, down down. Not very far down to the tip of the humming green blade protruding through their chestplate. Frantic shouting, a deep voice that was suddenly oh so foreign. The body is shoved aside, the boot that had been pressing his arm into the snow slides away, leaving a deep tread-mark on the flesh of his forearm. Qui-Gon Jinn is standing behind them.</p>
<p>Qui-Gon Jinn just killed a Mandalorian. His master.</p>
<p>A hand roughly grabs Obi-Wan’s arm, shakes him. “Obi-Wan,” he hears. “Obi-Wan, are you alright?”</p>
<p>“Yes master,” he answers almost robotically. There’s a feeling he can’t explain, like a jacket being straightened out and pressed to crispness. Everything going back to normal, where before it had been so windswept. But he preferred it windswept and sloppy.</p>
<p>Qui-Gon shakes him again. “Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan, are you alright?”</p>
<p>“I’m fine, master.” Obi-Wan gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile.</p>
<p>“You cannot lose focus in a battle like this. Do you understand? These people are dangerous. You <i>cannot</i> slip again.”</p>
<p>“Yes master.”</p>
<p>Qui-Gon sighs and then pins him with another sharp look, the kind that used to make him flinch a little. But now having seen Qui-Gon stab through a Mandalorian’s chest, there’s something different about him that makes Obi-Wan numb to those piercing looks.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Obi-Wan hears himself say. For what? But Qui-Gon seems satisfied.</p>
<p>“Are you alright?” He asks, swinging his blade into an emerald arc and deflecting a few shots. Obi-Wan realizes that he should probably also bring up his guard. He puts his back against Qui-Gon’s, swinging his blade, although the presence behind him seems less warm than before. “You seemed off,” Qui-Gon continues. “Perhaps I should stay with you to make sure you’ll be okay?” But even though Qui-Gon’s voice is light, he cannot block his emotions that are trickling down their master-padawan bond. Disappointment. Obi-Wan’s stomach sinks.</p>
<p>He follows Qui-Gon’s gaze through the struggling bodies (there are more than there had been before, he realizes, and more uniforms) to where a figure is lithely twisting and slashing, blade clashing against a Mandalorian with one of those short swords, a beskad. Whitish blond hair and blue arcs through the air. Komari. Komari Vosa. The perfect padawan, Obi-Wan thinks. Bitterness fills his mouth. Suddenly he wants to tell Qui-Gon about what he really knows about Vosa, whispered rumors about cruel laughs and vicious strikes. Then Qui-Gon’s gaze shifts to his left and Obi-Wan swivels his head. Master Dooku, slicing brutally quickly though Mandalorians, carving his way towards Vosa. For a few seconds, Obi-Wan doesn’t understand, but something about it screams familiarity.</p>
<p>Then it’s as if a veil has been pulled out from over Obi-Wan’s eyes. He understands Qui-Gon’s strange nervousness, the way he’d seemed so wired and twitchy and so much more demanding. It’s not about him, it’s about Master Dooku. Obi-Wan doesn’t fully understand their relationship, but he knows this much: all Qui-Gon cares about is not disappointing <i>his</i> master. Qui-Gon’s actions are so intimately familiar to Obi-Wan. It’s like a mirror that he can see himself in, albeit in a twisted sort of way. Perhaps Qui-Gon cares about his padawan, but his master first, his master more. Not Obi-Wan.</p>
<p>Qui-Gon glances at him, he must have felt something through the bond. “Obi-Wan,” he begins.</p>
<p>Obi-Wan runs, slamming down on their bond, dodges a grasping hand. His body is moving on autopilot, his mind spinning. There are cries piercing the air, raw shouts and battle cries and blares and flying fists.</p>
<p>There are bodies strewn all over the snow and he stumbles over them.</p>
<p>Bodies.</p>
<p>Bodies on the ground.</p>
<p>Blood seeping into the ground.</p>
<p>The deja vu nearly chokes him.</p>
<p>It’s Melida/Daan. Bodies thick on the ground and fighting all around him but he’s helpless to stop it, he can’t save any of them. Even the drop of blood, so like the blood that bubbled out from Cerasi’s mouth as she died. But if it’s Melida/Daan, then- fuck. The Jedi are not the Young. He knows this clearly. They are killing around him. No, the Mandalorians are the Young, the Mandalorians and the Judicial Forces and the scrappy Galidraanian rebels who are being utterly crushed. And the Jedi are the attackers, destructors. Cerasi would have spit on them.</p>
<p>He has to stop this. This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. He reaches out desperately to the Force, hoping against hope that it will tell him he is wrong, tell him that the Jedi are right. But no. It whispers agreement. Agreement. He feels slightly dizzy. He hasn’t always been on the right foot with the Order; he directly disobeyed orders on Melida/Daan. But afterwards, after each disagreement, he’d always been able to resolve it, to come to terms with the order again.</p>
<p>But he has to stop this, this brutal bloodletting. And to do that, he’s going to be derailing a direct mission from the council. Not just derailing. That would imply he merely went outside the mission parameters. No. No. If he wants to stop the violence, he will have to fight Jedi. Direct violation, hostility against the Order. Could get him jailed, could get him killed. <i>Treason.</i></p>
<p>He stumbles blindly through the battle, not quite sure why he hasn’t been attacked yet but his mind spinning far too quickly for him to worry about that. The Order is his family, the only family he has. But if he stands by and lets these people be killed. For a crime. But does a crime justify killing? Not just killing, he realizes. Genocide. <i>Does a crime justify genocide?</i></p>
<p>A man collapses at the ground near his feet.</p>
<p>No. Nothing can justify this.</p>
<p>He feels sick again, but this time a sort that doesn’t overwhelm him.</p>
<p>Then his gaze snaps up, almost involuntarily, by some whisper of the Force. It draws his eyes quickly to a Mandalorian on jetpack, diving, flames from their gauntlet wreathing them. And the Jedi behind them, Tarin, his lightsaber arcing to cut them in half.</p>
<p><i>WRONG.</i> This time he and the Force scream the word silently, together. Heard by no one but each other.</p>
<p>He has to stop this, he has to- he shoves his hands out, cups his palms and reaches out to shove. Hard.</p>
<p>There’s an almost sonic-sounding bam and then Tarin flies backwards hard and hits a crate with a dull thud, Obi-Wan freezes and it seems that almost everybody else does as well. All eyes on him and Jedi pouring disapproval and anger into the Force, so much that he’s tempted to curl up into a ball.</p>
<p>Then his eyes stray upwards and land on a Mandalorian, blue-gray and reddish armor, a scarlet cape torn over one shoulder. He doesn’t know how, but for a second, he can see the man’s face, light brown skin and large, dark, almost black eyes, somehow warm. The Force buzzes with joy.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Come chat with me on tumblr @a-dumb-writing-gay!</p>
<p>This was fun to write! I've been a bit overwhelmed lately so it was nice to sit down and write a little. I'm going to try to go back later and fix Chapter 3's mando'a problem but probably not right now.</p>
<p>Beta'd by @leias_left_hair_bun, who's writing is incredible!</p>
<p>Mando'a:<br/>Shab, ad - fuck, kid.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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